Page 37 of The Book of Lost Hours

She quickened her steps, scanning to see if Fred was nearby.

When she looked back over her shoulder, Anton was closer than she’d expected.

The sight of him gaining on her drove her to run, choosing a shelf at random.

She had a plan in leading him, but in following, he must have one too.

His longer strides far outpaced hers. He was catching up.

Terrified, Amelia reached for her watch and spun the crown.

The door appeared but Fred did not. A pang of dread ran through her.

Too late to stop now. She kept running toward the door, hoping maybe their momentum would carry them both out.

She was inches from it when Anton caught up to her.

The full force of his weight and hers slammed against the surface of the door.

So hard she was sure they could hear it on the other side.

She reached for the knob but Anton caught her, dragging her back.

Their feet tangled together, toppling them both onto the ground.

Amelia clawed at his neck and beat his chest. He fended off her blows and reached for one of the shelves, trapping her body with his legs and torso while he pulled a book down at random.

Amelia panicked. What was he doing? With her free hand, she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled as hard as she could. Then she froze.

Beneath his coat, pinned to the front pocket of his shirt, Anton wore a painted picture of a blue flower. A forget-me-not, with a bright yellow center. Look for the timekeepers with blue flowers… they’re the ones you can trust.

Anton was breathing hard, still fumbling with the book. “Hold on tight, American,” he said.

Amelia heard Fred call out to her from afar, heard the rush of his footsteps, followed by the sound of Anton cursing.

She let out a scream as the ground dropped out from under them and the world around them became something new.

They landed in a dark room with wooden floors, Anton still on top of her.

Amelia swung out and hit him hard in the jaw.

He cried out and she struck again, catching him across the face.

He slammed both her wrists into the ground.

“Would you stop it!” he spat.

He pushed himself up off the ground and away from her, pinching his nose to stop the blood from trickling down his face.

She sat up, pressing one hand to her head.

Her ears were ringing. The sleeve of her shirt was torn above her left wrist. She stood up and looked around the strange room.

They were in an attic of some kind. The air was musty and cold.

Moonlight streamed in through a set of curtains.

“What have you done? Where are we?” Amelia gasped. “Have you brought me to Russia?”

“Russia? No, don’t be stupid. I would not bring an American girl to my country. They would shoot you.”

“Where are we? What is this? Take me back,” she demanded.

“No. Not yet.”

Amelia drew her arm back to take another swing.

He caught her wrist and gave her a stern look. “If you hit me again, I will leave you here.” He pulled her over to the window roughly. “Look there. See? Not Russia.”

Below them, a cobblestone street cut through a town full of squat wooden buildings.

There were no streetlamps, rendering the little town dark save for the moonlight, nor was there anything to indicate that this wasn’t Russia.

She spun around to confront Anton. He had his back to her, still nursing his injured face.

“Okay. Not Russia. But where are we?”

Anton turned around. “What do you mean? This is America. This is your America.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve never seen this place before.”

Anton muttered something else and returned to the window. “See there?” He pointed up at a flag affixed to the top of a building. It was, in fact, an American flag, missing about a dozen of its stars. “We are in Philadelphia. Eighteen forty-three.”

“Eighteen… wait. Hang on.” Amelia grabbed his arm. “What did you do?”

“I brought you to the past so you can explain to me why you decided to attack me. Not just once but a second time. What did I do to you?”

Amelia’s face darkened. She didn’t know which was worse. The fact that he killed Uncle Ernest, or that he seemed genuinely confused about it. Like he had forgotten. “You murdered my uncle.”

“Why do you keep saying that? I did not murder Ernest Duquesne.”

Amelia glared at him. “Don’t play dumb. It’s insulting.”

Anton made a series of sputtering sounds. “I do not play dumb!”

“Then why do you know my name? And why were you chasing me back there?”

“You clearly wanted me to.”

“But you didn’t have to follow. Who told you about me?”

A pause. A heartbeat. “I don’t think I can trust you with such information. First you were friendly when we met and next you bring a knife and try to stab me. Then you try to lure me back into your country. What do you want from me?”

“I attacked you because I thought you murdered my uncle.”

Anton shook his head. “I didn’t murder anyone. I did not even know Ernest Duquesne was dead until you said it.”

Amelia stared at him, beyond comprehending. “You didn’t?”

“No. I would not hurt Ernest Duquesne. He is a friend of mine. It was he who taught me how to do the time walking.”

“The what?”

Anton gestured to the room around them. “Time walking. We travel back in time. Like in a book.”

“He taught you how to do this?”

“Yes. So, see? We were friends.”

None of this made sense, but at least he didn’t seem keen on hurting her. Amelia rubbed her knuckles, which were throbbing from the multiple collisions with Anton’s face. Anton stepped back. A temporary truce. He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I think you broke something,” he said.

“If it were broken, there would be more blood.”

“Why do you know that?” Anton asked incredulously. “Is bloodshed a subject Americans learn in school?”

Amelia glared at him. “No. It isn’t. Why do you speak English?”

Anton returned her glare. “Because I learned it. Why don’t you speak Russian?”

“Why would I?”

“Oh, right, I forgot. Heaven forbid you learn languages other than your own. It would upset the Western agenda to acknowledge other people’s culture.”

Amelia sighed in frustration. “This is pointless. I don’t want to keep arguing with you. Take me back.”

“You think I want to keep arguing with you? It is like talking to a cat. I do nothing at all and scratch, scratch, scratch.”

Amelia resisted the childish urge to hiss at him. “Well, you’re the one who brought me here. I told you why I attacked you. What more do you want?”

“I want to know who is telling lies about me. I want to know who told you that I killed Ernest Duquesne, and I want to know whether you’re going to keep attacking me every time we see each other.”

“I haven’t decided about that last part yet,” Amelia grumbled, rubbing her sore fist again.

She studied his bloodied face and hollowed cheeks.

His eyes were half sunken and sharper than knives, making him look dangerous…

but he was wearing a blue flower… and he had stopped her from falling into the chasm before.

“Moira is the one who told me you killed him.”

“Moira?” Anton repeated. “Who is this Moira?”

“She’s an American federal agent who worked with my uncle. She knew you’d been following him before he died. She said the Russians wanted my uncle dead. Plus, you had the book,” she added.

“Book?”

“Lisavet Levy’s book. The one my uncle was looking for with the memories the rebels stole. Moira said they were after him, too, to try and keep him from finding it.”

Anton folded his arms and leaned back against the dusty alcove by the window. “Okay, I understand why you attack me now if you believe all these things. But you should know something that might change your opinion.”

“And what’s that?”

“Ernest was not an enemy of the rebellion. In fact, it was the opposite.” Anton straightened up and took a square of white fabric from his pocket, holding it out to her. “This was his.”

Amelia looked down at the piece of fabric and took it cautiously.

It was a handkerchief, one of the many her uncle kept on hand that had his initials embroidered on one edge.

EGD. His mother had sent a set of them as a gift every Christmas until she died.

But this one was different. In one corner, opposite to where his initials were, was a periwinkle blue flower with a bright yellow center.

A forget-me-not, the size of a thumbprint. Amelia stared at it in disbelief.

“Do you know what that is?” Anton asked.

“Flowers for Lisavet Levy,” Amelia said quietly. “You have one too. On your shirt.”

“Ahhh, yes. Only mine is not so pretty,” Anton said, pulling his coat aside to reveal the painted flower pinned there. “So you see? We were on the same side.”

“The side of the rebellion.”

Anton scrunched up his face. “Ehhhh, it is not so much a rebellion. More like a movement. To change how things are.”

“Moira told me that the rebellion was dangerous. She said that it was destroying the order of Time. But you’re saying my uncle was a part of this?”

“He wasn’t just a part of it. He was the leader.

He recruited other timekeepers who shared the beliefs that memories should be saved, not burned.

Together, we do what we can to stop the big changes from happening.

He showed us what to do. He taught us how to time walk so we could hide.

And he helped keep other timekeepers hidden from those who work for the state. ”

Amelia stared at him. She wanted to hit him again and tell him that he was wrong. That he was lying. But she was holding the indisputable proof of it in her hand.

“Then… how did he die?”